


... Sing You To Your Rest

by Marzipan77



Category: The A-Team (TV), Torchwood
Genre: AU obviously, Community: intoabar, Crossover, Gen, Time Travel, UST, because John Hart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6546664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marzipan77/pseuds/Marzipan77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Templeton "Faceman" Peck walks into a bar and meets ... Captain John Hart from Torchwood! For the "intoabar" challenge community. What would Captain John do if he met Face in the '80s, when Face was tired of running and vulnerable to Decker and his goons?</p>
            </blockquote>





	... Sing You To Your Rest

DaNang. Vietnam. February, 1972

The DOOM Club. Perfect name. DaNang Officers' Open Mess. Face pushed through the crowd, for once unconcerned about who he was shoving, or who owed who what favors. And it wasn't just him. The mood all around the base was dark, the soldiers and airmen brittle and tense, reacting too quick, too sharp to any unexpected sound. Tired of the rain, the mud, the heat and the stench of the jungle, the adrenaline of being on edge twenty four hours a day for days and weeks and months frying the nerves of even the most mellowed out of the men.

The bar was packed. Another symptom. When the troops shuffled off to spend every penny of their pay on hooch and broads, that was one thing, but when the officers decided that the best way to handle the tension was to drink themselves under the table, well, you didn't have to have an ear to the ground like Face did to put all the pieces together and come up with the right picture. "We're screwed." Yep, he nodded to himself. That about summed it up.

This was one war they were not going to win. And Templeton Peck did not like no-win scenarios.

He'd said it to the colonel. Told him that the higher ups had given up on retaking the north a long time ago. And on keeping the south not long after. Between the protests back home and the red machine flowing out of Asia to the north, the US soldiers were being squeezed dry. Officers – older men who knew how to fight, how to plan, how to win, were being pulled back, 'reassigned' to the rear – or back to the States. And younger men were being abandoned - left here to die. Or worse.

He remembered the fire in Hannibal's eyes, the set of his jaw at Face's blunt, honest words. Watching the transport plane take off carrying colonels and majors, the team's orders forward clenched in one gloved fist, he'd watched the reality hit his CO in the gut, watched the lines at the corner of his eyes deepen, the shadows darken. Face's insight hadn't exactly been news to Hannibal, but if there was one person who hated being told he couldn't win more than Face, it was John Smith.

And then the sly, sharp smile broke out. Wheels already spinning, Hannibal took it as a challenge. In the past, Face had found that heartening – Colonel John Hannibal Smith was the one guy who could look at the hole the allied forces had dug for themselves and see only bright, shiny daylight. But, Face couldn't find it within himself to trust it. Not today. Not for months. Not since the prison camp.

Since a Viet Cong cook treated them better than their fellow soldiers. Since the damned coward Tommy Angel sat smoking cigars and eating duck pate with the enemy while he sold all of them out one by one. Since the team managed their own escape because their command couldn't be bothered.

Face's muscles tensed, a flash of heat flushing his pale skin. If he ever laid eyes on that mother fucker Angel again they'd never find the body.

He hit the edge of the bar hard, momentarily back there, lying in his own filth, the bamboo cage barely big enough for him to half-sit, half crouch in, head bent over his knees, Murdoch muttering and singing a hands-breadth away in the cage next door.

"Hey, now, the whiskey's not that good, but I'd hate to waste a drop."

Face reined in the anger, reaching for the smile, the altar boy innocence that had always served him so well. He put the memories back behind locked doors and reminded himself why he had come. Why he hadn't stayed in the barracks with BA and Murdoch. Why he had left the only place he felt safe anymore – the company of his team.

The man next to him – the one he'd jostled – turned, eyebrows on the rise, glass half-full of amber liquid held safely against his chest. He wore a captain's silver bars, but the uniform was as unfamiliar as the accent. Faded blue. Weird braid on the wide cuffs. Not French or British – at least not like any he'd seen before. Light brown hair, thick and wavy, was combed back from his high forehead. Maybe forty, but with a strong jaw and eyes that lit up with an assessing gleam that Face was all too familiar with. This one was trouble.

"Sorry, sir," he apologized, jerking his chin to summon Rick stationed behind the bar. "It's kind of a crush in here, isn't it?"

The captain's eyes narrowed while he looked Face up and down. "Lieutenant … Peck, I presume."

Some kind of accent. English? Welsh? Face returned the man's heated look with one of his own. Fake, that's what it was. Fake accent. Fake uniform. Fake rank. If anyone could spot a phony, well, everyone knew that old chestnut. Can't con a conman. 

Face leaned one elbow on the bar, accepting the drink from the barman with a nod. "I don't believe we've been introduced … _Captain_."

"Captain John Hart." The smile was part wolf, part shark, all hungry.

"What company?"

Hart – if that was his name – leaned closer. "Let's just say that I've been around, shall we?"

"Sure, let's say that," Face agreed, his own smile filled with teeth. Turning away, he rolled his eyes, drinking off the whiskey in one gulp. He grimaced. He didn't come here to get drunk, or to get eyed up and propositioned by some jerk cruising for some young tail. Face had heard all the lines, seen all the twitching hands and rheumy, lust-filled eyes and had learned how to avoid them when he was still in single digits.

"Now, now, don’t go away mad, Face," the captain eased closer, the heat of his body and musky scent wrapping around Face even in the close quarters of the officers' club. "In fact, don't go away at all."

Face sighed. He didn't need anyone seeing this jagoff hitting on him – he got enough grief for his pretty face, thank you very much. He slipped his left arm from his side in one quick motion to lay the flat of his K-BAR along the other man's ribs. "Back off," he whispered, sing-songing it with a wink that would tell any on-lookers that he and the other man were just playing around.

"Oh. Very tough. Very scary." Hart shivered dramatically, covering his backwards movement with a big gesture towards the barman and his empty glass. "But, alas, I am not here to ravage the tender teen version of Templeton Peck. For which my lifelong membership in the Depraved and Debauched Club of the Multiverse should be rescinded for good, I'll have you know."

"What?" Nuts. The guy was loco. And not in the cute, fantastical way that Murdoch carried it off, either.

"Never mind," Hart dropped his shoulders with a big, loud sigh. "You could not possibly understand."

"Okay then." Face made his blade disappear and formed a gun out of his fingers, pointing it at Hart in a sorta-friendly, sorta-threatening way. "Catch you later."

"No, no, no, no, no," Hart grabbed Face's hand and twisted, his thumb against the veins of his wrist, pressing in hard enough to discourage any movement. "No, you listen, boy," he hissed, pulling Face in tight against his chest, "I didn't have to come here. This isn't me, this nobility schtick. I could have left you and your little gang of misfits to hang for treason, but, no, here I am, fudging with the past, just because a certain blue-eyed blond tickles my fancy." He stared into Face's widening eyes with a dangerous smirk. "Among other things."

"Problem here, Lieutenant?"

Face practically fell backwards into Hannibal when Hart released him. Familiar hands on his shoulders steadied him as he caught his balance, retreating a half-step to give himself room to maneuver.

"No problem at all, Colonel," Hart responded before Face had a chance to speak. "Just a meeting of old friends."

"I have never – we are not any kind of friends, old or new!" Face insisted hotly, hands on his hips.

"Not yet, maybe, but I have fond, fond memories, believe me."

Hannibal stuck out his chest and shifted his unlit cigar to the other side of his mouth. "Ah." He jerked his chin towards Face. "Maybe someone should ask the MPs to escort Captain –"  
"John Hart, or so he claims," Face inserted smoothly.

"… Captain Hart back to his unit." Hannibal's eyes were narrowed, his jaw set in that particular way that Face knew meant trouble. "I thought the British crowd were all about manners and tea and raising their pinkies." The Colonel gestured. "You seem to have lost your way, _Tommy_."

Hart drew himself up to stand toe to toe with Hannibal. "I should go, should I? Leave you two to it?" His watery brown eyes strafed them both as if he could leave searing scars with just his look. "After all, the great Hannibal Smith could never be wrong. Could never get it wrong – so very, very wrong –" his voice got louder, angrier as he picked up speed. "Could trust the wrong guy and get his team so ultimately, permanently screwed. And not in the fun way," he added, off-handedly.

Hannibal's fists were suddenly filled with Hart's fancy uniform lapels.

"What's going on here, Colonel Smith? Is this man giving you trouble, Captain?"

"Oh, for crying out loud." Face shook his head. Instead of getting away from this looney-tunes, finding the Colonel and giving him the heads up that Morrison was looking for him, now a simple trip to the officers' club was turning into a three-ring circus.

Decker. The biggest prick in the Army. Putting his nose in where it didn't belong. As usual.

"None of your business, _Rod,_ " Hannibal spit around his cigar.

"Ah, Colonel Decker," Face spun around, smiling, ready to diffuse, distract, generally derail any attempt by the nosy colonel to butt in, "just a difference of opinion over ball games – cricket, baseball – these sports fans can get pretty heated, can't they? One remark about Mickey Mantle and the gloves come right off."

"Hands off, Colonel Smith," he heard Hart whisper behind him. "You and I have nothing to fight about. Trust me."

Yeah, that was likely, Face thought to himself.

Decker's wide, frightened eyes gave Face the first clue that something had changed.

A rustle of cloth was his only warning before a blur of blue uniform and blond hair charged past him, aiming straight for Decker. One well-aimed fist took the colonel down, and then Hart was straddling him, both hands around the colonel's throat, twisting for all he was worth, Decker's face turning red and then purple as his mouth gaped for air.

The men around them were too stunned to do anything but stare. In another second, Hart would twist the colonel's head off. After a half-second's hesitation, Face and Hannibal acted as one – one on either side of the crazy stranger, hauling him off the choking colonel and away from the scene. Hart fought them for a minute, fought hard and dirty, getting in a few bruising hits on Face's chin and Hannibal's gut before the two frog-marched him towards the door. Behind them, Decker was bellowing for the guy's head, coughing and retching and crying like a little girl.

Outside the club, back in the heavy, humid air, Hart stopped fighting. And started laughing.

"Now, that was fun!" he chuckled, nearly pulling Face and Hannibal down with him as he doubled over.

The colonel put one fist into the man's back and shoved him, wrenching Hart out of Face's hands and face down in the dirt. Where the nut continued to laugh, curling in on himself.  
"Hilarious," Hart choked out between gasps, "no wonder you punched the guy – that felt wonderful and I've only met the idiot once." He struggled to get control of himself, breathing fast, flat on his back, chuckling up at the two of them. "Can't imagine having him chase you around the countryside for years. Never was too stable, was he? And biting at your heels while the A-Team led him around by the nose must have just ratcheted up the crazy, huh?"

Hannibal stared and then turned slowly to face him. "What the hell, Lieutenant?"

Face raised his hands as if in surrender. "Colonel, I have no idea." No one called them the A-Team. Nobody but Murdoch. And only then when they were by themselves.

Hart leaned up on one elbow and flipped up his sleeve to glance down at a wide leather cuff he wore on his wrist. "Okay, I'm running out of time here, which is also funny, but," he held up his hand to silence the two before they could object. "Listen. Let me explain. And then I'm out of your lives." His eyes caught at Face's for a moment. "Unfortunately, for good this time."

"Fine." Hannibal set his feet, arms crossed over his chest. "Explain."

Leaning back on both elbows, utterly relaxed in the dirt of a South Vietnam Army base, Hart's smile died. "Do not take Morrison's job. The Bank of Hanoi job. That is one particular order you should not follow, Colonel."

"What order?"

Face swallowed. "I was just coming to get you, Colonel. General Morrison called me into his tent, told me he had a job for us." He frowned down at Hart. "A job that could end the war. I could swear there was no one else around."

"I wasn't listening at doors, my adorable little Lieutenant," Hart replied, "not that I wouldn't stoop, because I would. In a heartbeat. But not this time."

Face took a step forward, fist clenched, but Hannibal grabbed his elbow and held him back.

"The Bank of Hanoi? What the hell would we have to do with the Bank of Hanoi?"

Hart maneuvered to his feet, telegraphing every movement, hands in plain sight. Finally, adjusting his jacket – and his pants - he faced off with the Colonel. "Robbing it to keep the VC from getting paid. Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? I mean, come on, we all know who and what is bankrolling the north. Loss of one payroll is not going to make a bit of difference in this clusterfuck."

Hannibal turned to Face. "Is that what Morrison wants?"

"Beats me," Face shrugged. 

"Well, he does. And you shouldn't."

"Why?" The colonel's chin tilted. He plucked his cigar out of his mouth and pointed it at the other man. "And why do you care?"

"Yeah, and why did you punch Decker in there? You said you'd just met him." Face was not following any of this.

"I care. I care because I know what's going to happen." Hart took a step forward. "I know that you'll be caught. Court-martialed. Sentenced. Morrison won't help – he'll either be dead, or he'll deny he had anything to do with it. He'll say it was all your idea." Hart had changed, like a switch being flipped. Instantly. The captain had turned from a crazy-laughing-wise-cracking weirdo to a dead serious, coldly honest soldier. "And what comes next are years of blood and loss and grief. Of running. Losing people. Ending only when that … Decker, in there, finally takes his revenge out of your hide." He turned to Face. Lunged forward to hold him, hands on either side of his face. "Out of you. Because he could catch you. Because you got so tired, so very tired of running. That, I understand. More than you know. And, still, I couldn't save you. Not then. Not until now."

"Lieutenant?"

Face held up one hand to keep Hannibal back. Something in him, something deep in his gut, believed Hart. He stared back at those worldly, ancient eyes, looked deep, and saw the grief. The guilt. The hastily covered over pain of losses Face couldn't possibly imagine. "You mean it. You really mean it."

"I mean it," Hart murmured, his voice low and gentle, dropping away so that only the two of them could hear. "I couldn't save you in 1985. I had to watch you die. Watch you suffer. So I came here to stop it all from happening."

"You're crazy," Face whispered, gaze darting back and forth between Hart's eyes. It was insane. It didn't make any sense. But – 

Hart let him go, backed off two long strides. 

"I've said my piece. My hands are clean." He jerked his chin at Hannibal. "It's on your head, now, Colonel. Don't do it. Take care of your team. This war is over – don't put its loss on your team's shoulders. Don't make them pay the price of defeat."

"Captain?"

"Don't believe me? Fine. Explain this, then."

Right hand touched the leather strip on his left wrist, opened a flap, and pressed a funny-looking keypad. Face felt his eyebrows rise and his mouth drop open as an aura of light appeared behind the man, yellow and white, tendrils reaching out to encompass Hart's form.

Hart caught his gaze as he stepped backwards. "Good night, sweetheart. And may all God's angels sing…"

And then he – and the light – was gone.

"In 1972, a crack commando unit was not sent to prison for a crime their commanding officer ordered them to commit. General Morrison, that commander, was tried by a military court and sent to prison. These men, Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith, Lieutenant Templeton Peck, Captain H. M. Murdoch, and Sergeant Boscoe Baracas, after testifying before a joint armed forces court, received honors and awards for their service to the United States of America, and dedicated their lives to help those less fortunate than themselves. They reside in Los Angeles, and, if you have a problem and no one else can help, maybe you can hire them. They're listed under 'The A-Team' in the yellow pages."

**Author's Note:**

>  _Tommy_ \- a derogatory term used to refer to British soldiers
> 
> A-Team history:  
> Hannibal Smith gets on Roderick Decker's bad side by initially punching him in the DaNang Officers' Club.  
> In 1972, the Bank of Hanoi job gets the A-Team arrested. Morrison is either killed or goes into hiding, faking his death.  
> The US begins pulling out of Vietnam in the early 70s.


End file.
